


Ante Up

by china_shop



Series: Trading Places [7]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Episode Related, F/M, Fic, M/M, Pre-Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:33:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whisky glass slammed down on the watch with a sickening crunch, and El winced. That was it -- no more FBI backup. She was on her own, just like the old days, except that in the old days there'd have been Mozzie or Alex, an exit strategy and an end game. Now -- well, now the first thing to do was to protest such wanton destruction of her supposed property. "Hey," she said, "my boyfriend gave me that. It was expensive--"</p><p>"It's fake," countered Meilin, "and Allie Winters isn't the kind of person who would wear a fake watch."</p><p>"My other watch is a Rolex, but it's in the shop."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ante Up

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 1.06. Thanks to mergatrude for beta and continued awesome.

El walked in the door of her apartment to see Mozzie hunched over the table. He was wearing a head-mounted magnifying glass and working by lamplight, and the faint odor of adhesives hung in the air. She put her bag on the couch and went over to investigate. "Whatcha doing?"

Mozzie glanced up and blinked owlishly a few times. He pushed the magnifying glass up out of the way. "You're home."

"Just this second." El took a seat across from him and surveyed the array of stationery products on the table -- envelopes, pens, cutters. "What's all this?"

"Well, I haven't had any luck with the bottle yet," said Mozzie, "but what you told me about the Dorsett sting -- the Suits putting a tracker in the briefcase, to be precise -- it got me thinking. Microtransmitters live up to their name, these days." He used a pair of tweezers to peel a square smaller than a postage stamp from a sheet of plastic and carefully position it in the top corner of an envelope. When he was satisfied, he stuck a postage stamp over it. Then he passed El the envelope.

It was addressed to Alex, care of her lawyers, in handwriting that even to El's eye was indistinguishable from her own. Excitement started to build, mixed with relief. Finally they were doing something, instead of just waiting for another shoe to drop. "The other team's playbook has some useful ideas after all. Good thinking, Moz."

"It might help us find her," said Mozzie. "And if she is being held by someone, it might give us a clue who that mysterious someone is." He slid a pen and a sheet of thick, creamy paper across the table. "I'm making the receptacle. It's up to you to write the message."

El got herself a glass of orange juice while she thought about it, then picked up the pen and wrote: _Alex, I know about the storage space. Find what you're looking for? Maybe you should just ask. xoxox El_

She folded the letter, slid it into the envelope and put it in her bag to post the next day, and while Mozzie cleaned up the mess, she went out onto the patio and looked at the city skyline. She had to find Alex to rescue her from whatever mess she was in, but she also had to find her so she could repay her debt and put that part of her life behind her, at least for now. The tracker, her work release, the deal with the Feds -- it wasn't just about staying out of prison anymore. She liked being on the team, she enjoyed the work, pitting her wits against other criminals, and if she were completely honest with herself, she wanted Clinton's approval. He'd been a worthy adversary when she was on the run, he'd caught her twice and then he'd given her a chance, but ever since she confessed to taking the Haustenberg, he'd been distant. He wasn't mad anymore, not obviously, but the easy working relationship they'd been developing had hit a speedbump and been flung off-course, and now that old familiar recklessness was beginning to build like an electric charge beneath El's skin. Maybe if she gave into it, did something daring and brilliant-- for the Feds this time, instead of behind their backs -- maybe then Clinton would remember why he'd let her out of prison in the first place.

 

*

 

"Allie Winters," said Hughes, watching Mitchell's reaction like a hawk.

Mitchell's front didn't waver. She kept her eyes on the dominoes she was balancing on end, one after the next. "Who?"

"Elizabeth!" said Jones, exasperated.

Hughes put his hands on his hips. They had dozens of agents out looking for Mark Costa, but the surest way to find him would be to get someone on the inside with Lao Shen, and the fastest way to do that was to exploit the resource at their disposal: Elizabeth Mitchell, with her fast-living, money-laundering experience. Looking at her now, slight, remote and so very young, it was hard to credit her with the full range of Winters' crimes, but their intel was impeccable. "We know she's one of your aliases."

That earned a tiny flicker. "We may have met once or twice." She tapped the corner of a domino against the table top for a thoughtful moment. "I'm sure I can enlist her assistance if you offer her full immunity."

Hughes snorted a frustrated breath. Typical of Mitchell to exploit an opportunity, even if that opportunity was the peril of one of their agents. No question she was still playing her own agenda, however useful she'd been in closing cases. Still, needs must. "Done," he said. "I don't give a damn what you did five years ago. I want to find Costa."

Mitchell smiled like a cat, smug and watchful. "Happy to help. What do you need?"

"We want you to make contact with Lao as Winters," said Jones, before Hughes could answer. "What do you know about Pai Gow?

"I'm not much into baking," said Mitchell lightly.

Jones glared at her, and she held up her hands. 

"Just trying to lighten the mood," she said. "Jeez. Pai Gow -- it's a Chinese game involving dominoes. That's all I know. If you want me to win, make it poker."

"We don't have the luxury of setting the rules," said Hughes. "Lao Shen does. You have twenty-four hours to learn to win at Pai Gow."

"Fine." Mitchell shrugged. Jones folded his arms, and she sat up straighter. "Yes, sir," she corrected herself, still addressing Hughes, covering her insubordination with a thin veneer of Bureau etiquette.

Irritation helped to stifle any residual guilt. "I'm not going to lie," he told her briskly. "This is a dangerous one, Mitchell."

"High stakes make things so much more interesting," she said. "I'm in." A devilish smile curled at the corner of her mouth, and her eyes were sharp -- not a cat after all, more like a fox.

She flicked one of the standing dominoes with the tip of her finger, causing a chain reaction, a clatter that sounded ominously like the echo of gunfire. Hughes felt a headache gather at the base of his skull. He turned to Jones, deliberately shutting Mitchell out. "Set it up."

 

*

 

It was too hot for headphones really, even with the windows open, but Peter didn't move to take them off. He sat in Mr. Twan's living room with Cruz and Jones, all of them listening in on Elizabeth's slightly strained banter with the dealer in Lao Shen's club, all alert for any sign of trouble. The others had the audio on speaker, and Jones was pacing the room, but Peter had opted for headphones for clearer sound. He'd cancelled a date with Rosie, the trainer at the puppy school, to be here, because there was an agent missing and it was all hands on deck, and now he was spending the evening with the rattle of dominoes and Elizabeth Mitchell's irrepressible quips in his ear, while staring at the small orange dot that represented her location.

Apparently the universe didn't want him to date.

There was a crackle from the radio on the table, and Peter pushed one earpiece back to hear what was going on. It was the NYPD. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. "Jones, we've got a problem," he said. "NYPD got a tip off. They're about to raid the game."

"What?" said Jones. "Who tipped them off?"

"No idea." Peter made himself stay seated. "What do you want to do?"

"They're going to get El killed," said Jones. "All right, get me Captain Shaddock of the NYPD before they--"

He didn't get to finish the sentence before there were shouts and crashing sounds. "You brought the cops," said Lao over the wire. Elizabeth denied it, but her hosts weren't convinced, and in the crescendo of chaos, it wasn't clear what was going on. Peter was too busy calling NYPD to pay close attention. He handed the phone to Jones and reached for his holster. If they had to go in--

Jones held up his hand to forestall any deployment and had a terse exchange with the police chief, which broke off as gunfire rattled through the speakers. "I'll call you back," he said, and flung the phone onto the table. "Give yourself up, Elizabeth. Tell them you're FBI."

"Shots fired!" came the NYPD report over the radio. "We've got a white female, five foot five, red suit, leaving through the kitchen--"

"I don't think she gave herself up," said Cruz.

"Maybe it's not her," said Peter.

"Trying to save my cover here, guys," said Elizabeth over the wire.

"It's her," said Jones. "Okay, if I haven't found her in three minutes, call in backup." He grabbed a shoe from the pile by the door and tried to shove his foot into it. "And tell NYPD to stay the hell out of our way!" He dropped the luckless shoe and glowered at the others. "Dammit, where are my shoes?"

Peter pointed to the pair nearest the wall and handed his headphones to Cruz. "Two pairs of eyes are better than one. You want me to come too?"

Jones glanced up from tying his laces and narrowed his eyes at Peter, and for a split second, Peter was sure he could see everything -- the kiss with Elizabeth, the conflicted feelings, the fact that Peter had been off-balance for weeks now without the comfortable certainty that professionalism and FBI procedure would keep them all safe. Improvisation was _dangerous_. Peter flushed, almost opened his mouth to say that, but Jones just nodded curtly. "Earpieces, keep the channel open and stay in contact. I'll go east, you go west."

"Got it," said Peter, grateful and disturbed in pretty much equal measure. He yanked on his shoes and took a breath. This was no time to get distracted.

 

*

 

The whisky glass slammed down on the watch with a sickening crunch, and El winced. That was it -- no more FBI backup. She was on her own, just like the old days, except that in the old days there'd have been Mozzie or Alex, an exit strategy and an end game. Now -- well, now the first thing to do was to protest such wanton destruction of her supposed property. "Hey," she said, "my boyfriend gave me that. It was expensive--"

"It's fake," countered Meilin, "and Allie Winters isn't the kind of person who would wear a fake watch."

"My other watch is a Rolex, but it's in the shop."

Meilin didn't smile. She was too busy pulling a gun.

"More guns?" El's hands went up automatically, and she harnessed the anger that shivered through her, using it to brighten her smile, give herself some edge. "Really?"

Meilin continued as if El hadn't spoken. "Elizabeth Mitchell, on the other hand--"

"Oh, you know who I am." El relaxed. Her cover was blown, but Meilin hadn't summarily shot her. That meant she wanted something.

"You've been on our watchlist for years."

El grinned with all the charm she could muster. "Want to narrow it down? I've been on a few."

"Interpol," said Meilin. She hesitated and then lowered her gun.

El dropped her hands to her hips, realizing too late that she was imitating an exasperated Clinton. "This is an FBI investigation. Why is Interpol involved?"

"It's the other way around. You came blundering in, got Lao's attention -- you're going to mess up everything."

"You called the cops." The pieces started to fall into place. "Oh, I get it, this is a turf war. So why are we here? Going to do away with me and stash the body under the bed?"

"Don't tempt me," said Meilin. "We need you to botch the deal."

"Yeah, I can't," said El. She sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off her shoes. If they were going to be here a while, she might as well get comfortable. "Don't know if you got the memo, but the FBI signs my paychecks now, such as they are. I don't think it'd go over too well if I double-crossed them."

"You can do it. Make it look like Lao outsmarted you."

"You know my reputation and Lao's -- do you really think they'd buy it?" said El lightly. "Hey, I know, why don't you call the Bureau and settle this like adults? Leave me out of it."

Meilin pulled up a chair and sat across from her. "If you help me, I can give you what you want."

"What, a new watch?"

"Alex Hunter," said Meilin.

El tensed, despite herself. She hadn't said a word to anyone. "How do you know about Alex?"

"Someone was putting out feelers about the two of you, a few months back." Meilin's expression was impossible to read. "I know where Alex is. I know who's got her."

"I--" El took a breath. It had been over a week and the letter with the tracker was still sitting in the lawyers' office, Mozzie hadn't made any progress with the bottle. This might be her only chance to find Alex and discover what was going on. She closed her eyes and saw the after-image of the yellow smiley faces on Clinton's novelty socks, but this wasn't the time to play by the rules. She could impress Clinton and the Feds next time. Right now, loyalty was a liability. "I think I'll take that drink."

 

*

 

"Meilin is Interpol," said Clinton. He took one of the canapés from the sample plate and swallowed it without any sign of savoring. "That means Elizabeth's playing me."

Neal sent an apologetic glance to the caterer whose wares he was trying out. Sometimes Clinton was an asset on these occasions, offering a down-to-earth perspective compared to Neal's more rarefied tastes, but when he was worked up, he could chew through an entire plate of antipasto without noticing. Neal nibbled a cracker smeared with a very good vegan mushroom pâté and guided Clinton over to the water cooler. "Maybe she kept her cover. Maybe they played Pai Gow."

"They were in a room together for six hours." Clinton scowled. "No, she's trading up -- Interpol for FBI."

Neal licked his thumb clean and poured himself a glass of water. "That's not exactly a move up. What can Interpol do for her while she's wearing the anklet?"

"So maybe the whole work release has been a con." Clinton stole Neal's water and took a drink. "She has no loyalty -- it's all about who can offer her the best deal at any given moment, and what she can get away with."

"No," said Neal positively. "Babe, she respects you. If she's off-book, she's got a reason."

"A better reason than a missing FBI agent?" Clinton's scowl turned into a glower.

Neal touched his arm. "Better to her. So maybe you need to find out what it is."

 

*

 

After they found and lost Costa's body at the warehouse, Clinton took Elizabeth back to his apartment. Clinton needed answers, and if Hughes got wind of Elizabeth's betrayal, she'd be back in prison before Clinton had the chance to find out what had happened. But having got her home, all he could think about was Costa's family, the Haustenberg, the growing number of reasons he shouldn't believe anything that came out of her mouth. She always had her own agenda -- it was just luck when it happened to coincide with the Bureau's.

In spite of that, he didn't want to lose her. They worked well together and they'd cracked some big cases, and more, now he knew her better -- or thought he did -- the idea of letting her rot behind bars seemed a damned waste. And on a selfish note, with Diana in DC, Elizabeth was the bright spot in the team, the leavening agent. She brought life and humor to serious meetings and long shifts in the van. She was smart and insightful and she looked up to him, or seemed to, and--

And he couldn't trust her. It started and ended there.

He turned to where she was standing, still and wary by the couch, tracking his movements. The window was behind her so he couldn't quite make out her features, and he wondered if she'd positioned herself there on purpose. 

"What does Interpol want?" he asked, abruptly. "Is Meilin holding something over you?"

She sank to the couch and looked up at him, her eyes dark and pitiful. "What was I supposed to do?"

Clinton studied her and tried to decide if she was telling the truth. "We gave you immunity." He folded his arms, thinking out the situation. "Meilin didn't threaten Allie Winters -- she made you. What's she got on you?"

"It's complicated, okay?" Elizabeth's misery was touched with defiance. "You're not the only one with a claim on my loyalties."

"Haversham?"

Elizabeth shook her head.

"Then who?"

"I can't say."

Clinton huffed an exasperated breath and ran his hand over his head, struggling to dial back his expectations. There was no use demanding she forget her former life. That would never work -- she was over-invested in a puppy she'd known for six weeks, for God's sake, let alone accomplices she'd been through who knew what with. "Look," he said, finally, "you can divide your loyalties as much as you want, but your work with the Bureau -- with me -- has to take first priority. That's the only way this partnership can work."

Elizabeth's head came up sharply. "We're partners?"

"That's what I'm waiting to find out," said Clinton. He sighed and sat on the coffee table, facing her. "What do Interpol want?"

"They want Lao to walk. They're after his boss."

Anger smoldered in Clinton's chest, not just for Costa, but for the way Meilin was willing to use Elizabeth, trapping her with lies and threats. "Lao doesn't have a boss," he said flatly. "You know what this is really about? Jurisdiction."

 

*

 

The air in the surveillance van with thick with the hum of equipment. Elizabeth was in with Lao and she'd cut the audio from her watch, and waves of tension emanated from Jones and Burke as they waited for her to come back online. Lauren quietly sipped her coffee and refreshed the account page. No movement.

"He's already killed one agent," muttered Burke, half to himself.

"Her cover's good. She'll be fine," said Lauren. "Trust me, I wrote the book on Elizabeth Mitchell. She's not going to be taken out by a two-bit money launderer with the FBI fifty feet away outside. That'd be far too--"

"Ironic?" said Jones grimly.

"Not helping, Cruz," muttered Burke.

Lauren bit her tongue. He might be right.

"Is there any movement on the account?" asked Jones, after a long, strained pause.

Lauren refreshed the screen again. "Nothing."

Burke started tapping his pen against the van's metal counter, a rat-a-tat-tat that quickly wore on the nerves, and Lauren reached across and plucked it from his fingers. "Also not helping. Listen, if it's any comfort, Mitchell's suspected of ripping off a dozen people in Lao's position. There was a crooked Czar in Russia, an Egyptian smuggler, a dirty Australian art dealer -- I'm just saying, she can handle herself."

As she spoke, the audio kicked in and Jones scrambled to turn up the speaker volume. The feed rattled like gunfire, and even Lauren winced, assailed by sudden doubt, but--

"Sounds like dominoes," said Burke.

The three of them let out a collective breath.

"She's playing Pai Gow with him," said Lauren. "That wasn't on the agenda."

They listened for a few more minutes, and Jones said, "And she's losing. That wasn't on the agenda either."

"Well," said Elizabeth, over the wire. She sounded politely regretful. "You have all of my money and my watch. It looks like I have nothing left to wager."

"A pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Winters," said Lao dismissively.

"Her watch?" said Lauren. "What's she doing?"

Burke patched in their Cantonese translator, who was working remotely from the office, and as the translation came through, Burke grabbed his pen back from Lauren and started making notes.

"Listen," Jones told Lauren. Lao and his man were talking business, echoed in English by the translator, and Jones smiled for the first time in days. "We've got him."

 

*

 

"Dumplings?" said El, offering the platter to Neal. They were at Mr. Twan's restaurant, celebrating the successful closure of the case on El and Clinton's part, and the securing of a new client on Neal's.

"We're taking down Lao's whole operation," Clinton told Mr. Twan. "And Lao himself is going away for a long, long time, with the tape we have on him."

Mr. Twan smiled. "Thank you. The neighborhood's much better off without him."

"You know," said Neal, gesturing with his chopsticks, "I think these are the best dumplings I've ever tasted. Do you cater?"

He and Mr. Twan went into the back office to discuss business arrangements, and El tried to look innocent under Clinton's undivided scrutiny. 

"Did Meilin give you what you needed?" he asked.

She sighed in resigned amusement and let her shoulders sag. It was uncanny the way he could see right through her, but it was a relief not to have to hide. "You were right," she said. "I shouldn't have trusted her."

"It's important to know who your friends are." Clinton seemed both unsurprised and unperturbed at the confirmation El had been playing both sides. The win made up for a lot, apparently.

Mr. Twan's daughter, Bai, popped up at Clinton's elbow, making him laugh and shake his head. "Not you again." He made a show of checking for his wallet and, finding it missing, glared at El.

El widened her eyes, and then grinned and handed it back to him.

Bai laughed and told Clinton to cover his eyes.

"With the two of you here? I'd find myself barefoot and penniless in a second."

El rolled her eyes. "Just do it."

He sent her an amused glance, before turning in his seat to face Bai properly. She pointed at him, and he solemnly shut his eyes, whereupon Bai produced his missing smiley-face sock from her pocket.

"Open."

Clinton took it and bowed a thank you. "But don't you turn out like Elizabeth! We don't have enough manpower to handle two of you."

Neal came up behind him and took the sock out of his hand. "This looks familiar."

"Yeah, you know, your idea of a joke has caused me all kinds of trouble," said Clinton, his expression softening as he looked up at him.

El hugged the moment tight, pretending she was part of their family, even if incidentally and under sufferance. There was something warm and solid and bright about the two of them that made her content and wistful at the same time, an echo of another life she might have led. It was a damn shame they hadn't kept the puppy though.

Half an hour later, back at the office and full of dumplings and fortune cookies, El's phone rang. It was Meilin.

"I hope you're calling to apologize," said El. "The flashdrive was empty."

"That was a necessary precaution. I had to be careful with something this sensitive," said Meilin.

El bit back a retort. "Do you know who has Alex or not?"

"I don't have a name, but I know he's FBI."

The world swung violently, and El tightened her grip on the phone. "Why should I believe you? How do you know?"

But Meilin had already hung up. It couldn't be true -- what would the FBI want with Alex? _What does the FBI want with you?_ a voice whispered in her head, and her gaze fell on Reese Hughes, patriarch and Bureau politician, with so much power and a history she knew nothing about. Or maybe it was Cruz, frowning at her monitor. Was that frown about Alex? Or Burke -- no, it couldn't be Burke -- or Clinton. Would he? Could she be sure of anything? Meilin had lied to her before, but this had the twisted ring of plausibility -- a story so outlandish that no one would invent it. And if it were true, she couldn't trust anyone.

El's mouth was dry, her lunch roiling in her stomach. She stepped out to the elevators and turned away from the rest of the office to call Mozzie. "We've got a problem. I need to see the bottle again -- bring it tonight."

 

END


End file.
